Both Hands
by witchofnovember
Summary: Final scene between Josh and Donna in the series.


**Author's Notes**: I honestly love Josh and Donna, but think, if it was done correctly, the following outcome would be tragically perfect. Like Jo and Teddy in _Little Women_, they are the perfect couple that is cosmically fated never to be together. After listening to Ani DiFranco's "Both Hands" (which you need to go get if you haven't heard it), I worked this out in my head for the last week... It's dedicated to the gang at TWoP because they keep me sane.

xxxxxx

His fingers itched to pull the bow-tie loose from his neck, but the swirling skirts of the evening gowns and clink of wine-glasses reminded him that he had another two hours to endure before he would be able to slough the constrictive tuxedo and all of its accessories. The glass of wine he had tossed back moments earlier was metallic on the back of his tongue, an unfamiliar taste that made him mentally grimace. There was nothing about this evening that wasn't trying and he struggled to understand why the feeling of discomfort overwhelmed him.

The Congressman and his wife were surrounded by legions of smiling handlers and aides, campaigning having become second nature to them both. Josh was amazed at the ease with which Matt and Helen Santos had become the sparkling celebrities – he had thought it would be a harder road, longer, more of a struggle. But America had found its shining son and their numbers climbed daily. As they became more comfortable in their roles, Josh became more desperate in his, a situation he was desperate to remedy.

Glancing away from the couple, Josh searched the faces around him. Many were familiar and he nodded as he met the eyes of Senators, Congressmen and political minds from all ranks of the Democratic Party. Fund-raisers in Washington brought out all of the fame-seekers and this night was no different. A waiter walked by with a tray of white wine and Josh grabbed a glass, ignoring the acidic wave that was climbing up from his empty stomach. He was far from drunk, not even slightly tipsy, and the growing depression that washed over him was sliding its fingers around the corners of his mind.

As he sipped the wine, a slight blonde slid by the corner of his vision and he caught his breath. Following the ghost in red silk, he wove in between bodies, dodging plates of crab-puffs and glasses of bourbon until he found himself in the lobby. Twisting back and forth, he saw her standing at door, her back pale and exposed in her evening gown.

"Donna!"

The woman turned at the sound, her movement graceful and fluid.

Josh, caught off guard, apologized. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"It's quite alright." She smiled her brown-eyes cautious. "It happens to all of us."

Turning back to the doorway, the woman stepped out into the night. Josh shook his head and slowly wandered back into the party, the music ringing thinly in his ears. As he looked around again, his mindslid back to another evening. It wasn't high summer, but the depth of winter and the rustle of silk was accompanied by the smell of falling snow. A lifetime separated the people of that night from the ones who stood here now. It had been years since he had thought of that night, the car ride, the snowballs, and how beautiful she looked in midnight blue.

He caught the Congressman's eye and realized that he had been neglecting his duties for more time than was seemly. Reminiscing about past lives was fine, but should be saved for down time. And hopefully, his next available hour of free time would be in eight years. Putting down his glass, he glanced one more time toward the lobby and then turned back to the job at hand.

Three hours later, Josh found himself wandering down a familiar street of brick row-homes. He had often driven by here in the past months, glancing for a light in the second floor windows, wondering if she still slept with the desk lamp on in the living room. She still lived here. C.J. still kept in touch and had come by for dinner several weeks before – she had let it slip in conversation earlier in the week during a phone call concerning the party platform.

Josh looked up at the windows and saw the apartment blazing with light, windows wide open and glowing like beacons on the otherwise quiet street. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he pondered his next move, knowing that nine years of inaction stood like a wall before him. He wasn't sure what had brought him here on this night. It could have been the blonde in the red dress. It could have been the wine. It could have been the increasing loneliness he felt as he juggled the tasks he knew they should have shouldered together. Whatever it was, he was here, now.

He steeled himself and walked up to the door, pausing for a moment before he pressed the buzzer.

A moment passed and a voice came through the speaker, "Yes?"

"It's me," he said quietly, his mouth suddenly dry and his tongue uncooperative.

"Josh?" The voice was tentative.

"Yeah."

Silence came thundering down around him as he wondered if she would let him up, a possibility that had not occurred to him until this very moment. The sound of the door-lock made him jump and he realized he was far more nervous than he had anticipated. After all, it was just Donna. He had been to this apartment a million times in the past. Her sofa had been his second bed for years. Straightening his jacket and running a hand through his hair, he pulled the door open and jogged up the stairs.

She was waiting for him at the door, her blonde hair pulled back loosely in a knot on the back of her neck, her blue eyes tired and shadowed. Taking in his evening wear, she cocked her head and looked at him warily.

"What are you doing here, Josh?" She held the door close and leaned her head against the jamb.

"Hi to you, too," he said sarcastically, taking in her dirty Georgetown t-shirt and dusty black pants. "Am I interrupting a late-night cleaning session?"

Sighing, she rubbed her eyes, "No. I'm actually..." Donna looked at her watch and exclaimed, "It's 2:00 in the morning, Josh! What are you doing here?"

"Shhhhh," he replied, listening for the tell-tale footsteps of angry neighbors. "Can I come in?"

"Josh, I..."

He put his hand on the doorjamb and leaned in to her, "We have to talk."

Meeting his eyes, she paused for a heartbeat and then relented, pushing the door open and turning to walk into her apartment. As he stepped in, Josh saw dozens of packing boxes lined up in the hallway, cryptically labeled in Donna's illegible handwriting. Swiveling around the living room, he noted the empty walls and stripped bookcases, newspaper and boxes all over the floor. His eyes wide, mouth open, he turned toward where she was standing, her head bowed.

"You're packing," he whispered.

She looked up at him and shot back, "Astute observation, Captain Obvious."

He watched her chew her lower lip and it dawned on him that he did not know this woman. The room was familiar, her appearance was familiar, but the woman standing in front of him was a complete stranger.

"Why?"

Donna turned and walked back to the box she was stuffing with clothes. She bent down, picked up another sweater and began to busy herself with the act of folding.

"I'm going to Wisconsin," she said softly, never taking her eyes off the turtleneck in her hands. It was her favorite lavender sweater, the one she bought on her first shopping trip after getting out of the wheelchair. She fingered a pull in the hem and wondered if she could get it repaired. She couldn't let it unravel.

"Wisconsin?" The word came out high pitched and Josh mentally tried to get a hold of himself. "Why are you going to Wisconsin? Is it the job? I can make calls, Donna. Let me call a few people..."

"Josh..."

"John Mittinger in Treasury needs someone. He just said something to me the other day when I saw him at the OEOB. Mary Schultz's office is short-handed; I can call her in the morning. And Rob Nixon asked me the other day if I..."

"Stop!" Pulling violently at the stray thread, she willed him to leave. If he left, this would be so much easier. There were really only a few more boxes to pack tonight and she could finish it if he would just leave.

He sighed heavily and sat down on the small corner of the sofa not covered with clothes or bags, the weariness of forty-six years settling on him in one instant. When he found himself outside her door, he never expected it to be like this.

"I'm leaving, Joshua," she said quietly, pulling harder at the hem of the sweater. The tears in her eyes blinded her from seeing anything but the movement of her fingers on the fabric.

"When?" His face was in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees. If he looked at her, he wasn't certain he could hold back the desperation that was creeping so very near the surface. They hadn't been with each other for months, but knowing she was around and nearby had kept him going. He had just been waiting for the right time.

"Tomorrow," was the whispered reply. He swallowed hard and studied his shoes, noting the scuffs in the shiny leather. He'd have to get them polished before the next dinner in Los Angeles on Tuesday. The thought was comforting, as though worrying about his shoes would save him from the crumbling of his life around him.

Looking up at her, he saw that she was systematically unraveling the hem of the sweater in her hands. He stood, walked over and gently took it away.

"Don't. You'll ruin it."

She lifted her head and looked at his face, studying him for a moment. The lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered, seeming more like signs of a life of worry, rather than the ones of laughter she had loved. His hair was beginning to show more grey, even its wild state, and his shoulders slumped more, as though the burden he carried caused him to physically bend under its weight.

"I can get it fixed," Donna replied softly, turning back to grab another sweater.

"Donna, please..."

"Don't, Josh," she said sharply, dropping the sweater into the box and crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "Just don't. We can't do this." He winced to hear his own words thrown back at him.

"Donna, I couldn't give you that job."

"It's not about the job! God, don't you get that? It's about you and me and this thing we do." She was angry now and pacing the small bare spot in the floor, kicking crumpled newspaper out of her path. "It hasn't been about the job in years."

He looked at her sadly and said, "You left me."

"Oh God, Josh," she moaned, "I didn't leave _you_. I left the _job_. I thought you understood that..."

"That's right," he snorted, "It was the job. Because I was such a terrible boss."

Donna stormed over and poked him in the chest, "Damn you, Josh Lyman! Damn you for thinking so little of me! Yes, it was the job! And yes, I left to do better and I did! You can belittle it all you want, but I was good and you know it!"

Catching her hand, Josh stopped her and said softly, "You were excellent."

There were just a few inches between them and Donna felt his breath on her face, fast and warm. He smelled of wine and the musky cologne he had been wearing the day they met in New Hampshire. This was the closest they had been since she woke up in Germany to find him sitting over her hospital bed. She had thought everything would change that day. She had been so mistaken.

"You were great on the Russell campaign." His voice was soft and tender. "And I never, ever thought little of you."

Her eyes were blue and there was a smudge of dirt across her jawbone. He wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but was afraid to make a move lest the moment would slip away. He watched her blink and saw a tear slide down her cheek.

"Donna..."

"I'm leaving, Josh," she said quietly, pulling her hand away and stepping back, her eyes looking over his shoulder. "Emily Wilkins is running for the Senate and she wants me in Wisconsin to run her campaign. I start the day after tomorrow."

Josh blinked rapidly and looked back down at the sweater in his left hand, the raveled thread from the hem blowing in the small breeze from the floor fan. As he watched the thread drift back and forth, he realized he was numb and amazingly calm.

"So, you're going?" He refused to look up until he was certain he could control himself.

"Yeah," she whispered. She was holding a wool sweater close to her chest and studying a crack in the windowsill, feeling him only feet away, but knowing she couldn't give in, couldn't reach out to him. This time, the break had to be total and complete in order for her to succeed.

"You're not done packing."

"I'll be back in a few weeks to finish up. Emily needed me to get things rolling as soon as possible."

"Do you have a ride to the airport?" His voice was forced, as if it was taking him a great deal of effort to form the words.

"No, thanks. I've got it covered."

The only noise to break the heavy silence was the hum of the generator on the telephone pole outside the window.

Keeping his eyes on the sweater in his hands, Josh said quickly, "I'd better go, then." He dropped the lavender cloth on the sofa and turned to leave. As he reached for the door handle, he stopped and said softly, "We tried, you know. Maybe if we tried harder..."

From behind him she replied, "Josh..."

He turned his head to look at her, memorizing every inch of her body, bare feet, dusty pants, tear tracks and all. Closing his eyes, he pictured her in his mind, willing himself to remember every detail.

"You know, we could have..." He felt her hand on his cheek and knew the tears would come. He had no walls left behind which he could hide. And as they slipped down his cheeks, he realized that this would be the last time he would be able to count on her to hold him upright.

"We did," she said softly. "We just did it in our own way."

Refusing to open his eyes, Josh turned quickly and stepped out the door, flying down the stairs as if he was afraid that whatever followed him would steal him away into the darkness of the night. When he got out to the sidewalk, he turned in the direction of his car and began to walk. The pavement was blurred by unshed tears and his footsteps were hollow against the walls of the surrounding houses.

In his mind, he heard only her weeping as she sat on her sofa and held the lavender sweater, its unraveled threads falling softly through her hands.


End file.
